


Postmortem

by MissingTriforce



Series: A Kinder Universe [2]
Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade - The Victorian Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Blood Bond, Blood Drinking, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28164570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissingTriforce/pseuds/MissingTriforce
Summary: Beckett didn’t turn to look at Anatole, and the red lenses of his glasses were opaque and inscrutable. “How did you find me?” he asked. His voice was low, like the crumbling sound of rocks pushed to slow an avalanche.Anatole stepped beside his friend. “I had a dream. I dreamt of a white wolf and a red dragon in a garden of roses across the sea. The pair writhed together, trying to perform goodly works, but the thorns pricked them as they moved. But it was only a little blood, each time, so they continued. A little here; a little there, until they bled to death, still entwined. I knew you needed me.”
Relationships: Beckett (Vampire: the Masquerade)/Anatole (Vampire: the Masquerade)
Series: A Kinder Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645372
Comments: 9
Kudos: 11





	Postmortem

The prophet of Gehenna walked across the frozen heath. Anatole saw, without seeing. The freezing mud sank beneath his shoes, splattering onto his legs and dirtying his monkish robes, but he paid it no mind. He reached the top of a hillock with a good view of the easterly sky. The stars hummed, he got down on his knees, and he dug.

His long, thin fingers pushed the heathland to one side. Starbursts of fire; ash; lovers. “I am here,” Anatole whispered to seemingly no one. “I am here.”

Without warning, the form of a man sprang from the earth in a wet shower of icy dirt clumps. Tattered, charred clothes hung off his frame as he flung himself at Anatole, who caught him with dull thud of flesh on flesh. Dagger-like teeth sliced into Anatole’s neck, but the pain was quickly replaced by a venomous pleasure. His breath shuddering, Anatole tilted his head for better access, as he held the man to him, murmuring nothings as he stroked the dark brown hair.

“It’s all right, little wolf. I am here.”

#

The next night Anatole woke to a cold bed. He did not often dwell on the centuries between Beckett and him, but Beckett had used vampiric youth to advantage here. Anatole reached across the horsehair mattress with slow thought, as if each thread of linen were a year, and each must be traversed with careful haste to meet his love.

No matter. Anatole knew where Beckett would be.

After a brief wash, and dressing in yesterday’s robes with the mud beaten out of them, Anatole moved silent as a ghost out of habit, though no threats loomed in the shadowed corners of the gabled English manor the servants called Bernan House. He found the cook in the kitchen with her pickled vegetable charges, and the woman produced a good-sized jar on request. Anatole thanked her, tucked the glass in his pockets, and moved on.

It was an easy trudge to the spot of heath he’d found Beckett melded in. A sliver of the frosty moon hung sweet in the crushed velvet night. Above ground, Beckett was dressed in a fresh, snow-white poet’s shirt, the rough curls of his chest hair filling out the deep vee of the neck. His canvas trousers sported twin dirt patches as he kneeled, like a man at prayer—or one before a grave.

Beckett didn’t turn to look at Anatole, and the red lenses of his glasses were opaque and inscrutable. “How did you find me?” he asked. His voice was low, like the crumbling sound of rocks pushed to slow an avalanche.

Anatole stepped beside his friend. “I had a dream. I dreamt of a white wolf and a red dragon in a garden of roses across the sea. The pair writhed together, trying to perform goodly works, but the thorns pricked them as they moved. But it was only a little blood, each time, so they continued. A little here; a little there, until they bled to death, still entwined. I knew you needed me.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” said Beckett. A small hope flickered in Anatole’s heart at the faint sound of his friend’s usual stubbornness.

“I went into deep meditation. I let the Cobweb wrap around me, strand by strand, brother by sister childe. One of the Sheriffs of London—Juliet Parr—she heeded my call. She knew of you going—somewhere north, with a group of others. A woman she loves called Joanna Claremont connected this group with County Durham, and Lion’s Green and Bernan House. My eyes led me the rest of the way.”

Silence, but Anatole did not mind silences. His legs did not tire of standing; his bones didn’t ache for the cold; and the curved knife growl of hunger didn’t grow or abate. He stood as statue, as a sentinel, until Beckett jerked to standing. “You can see wraiths.”

Anatole nodded. “Of course.”

“You can see her. Is she—is she here?”

Anatole took a step back, but Beckett spun on his heel and grabbed Anatole’s wrist. Beckett’s face appeared gaunt and hard-planed—young. Even behind the dark sunglasses, Anatole knew those red eyes didn’t comprehend truth. “Little wolf, you know it is very rare—”

“No! Maybe—maybe this was her plan all along. She knew all sorts of things, Anatole. She lived among the Tremere and their stolen Revenants all her life. She was very weak and knew my habits. She didn’t want me badgering her for details, when she could just do it and answer my questions at her full strength. My God! I’ve been making her wait. She’s probably around her somewhere—smiling—”

“Beckett, Beckett, be at peace,” Anatole said. He could feel Beckett’s claws through the leather of the gloves. “We cannot know the minds of those who choose to end themselves, but I cannot imagine any beloved leaving you in suspense like this. I would never.”

Beckett’s mouth formed a thin, angry line. “Just do it. Use Auspex and look.”

Anatole swallowed. He must do what he must do. Beckett released his wrist, and Anatole pressed his fingers to his temple.

Dissemblings of the world fell away, and Anatole could see through pinholes and pinpricks to the spheres of the heavens themselves. Beckett burned a pale purple; shredded silver with weeping. Anatole’s gaze spread left to right, from east horizon to Bernan House. He saw the white innocence of the kine he’d afflicted with acceptance: hostler, butler, manservants, cooks, and maids who believed Beckett and he stayed at their mistress’s request, as eccentric friends.

Goodness, fairness, and rightness did not always play bedfellows with the truth. He saw no faint, indeterminate aura of a wraith.

“Well?” Beckett asked, impatient, tugging Anatole’s sleeve.

“I do not see her.”

“Impossible. Look harder.”

Anatole swept his all-seeing eyes left and right, behind and forward. Spun a circle. Nothing but the purr of heath and ice and earth. He shook his head.

“Perhaps you’re not old enough, sensitive enough.”

“I am 695 years old, little wolf. If I cannot see her, no one can.”

Beckett ground his teeth. “Why are you lying—”

“I do not lie, Beckett!” Anatole snapped, showing his fangs. “See.”

Anatole grabbed Beckett’s head in his hands. Beckett’s barriers were raw, surprised; open. Blood churned from Anatole’s shoulders, to arms, to wrists to fingers as his gifts slithered under Beckett’s skin, wrapped the brain, and poured out through the eyes. Beckett saw what he saw, and no one was there.

“Emma…?” Beckett whipped his head back and forth—searching. “Emma, please.”

Anatole didn’t need to know Beckett well, to have tasted his heart, to know the man was near frenzy. Beckett’s teeth gnashed; his long braid of hair seemingly bristled. “Beckett, you must find your peace.”

Beckett snapped like a wolf on a chicken’s neck, “Peace! I let her burn!”

Before Beckett could spring, Anatole felt for the weak blood between them and _pulled_.

It was like God had released Beckett from His ordinance. The Gangrel crumpled to the dirt and sobbed. Color rushed to his cheeks as tears poured out. Anatole sat beside him, and Beckett leaned his head on Anatole’s shoulder while he cried.

After a few minutes, Beckett quieted. Anatole kissed his fevered forehead and wiped away tears. “You loved this Emma then?”

“Lady Emma Blake. I suppose Aristotle told you about her.” Beckett’s voice was clogged with snot, and he cleared his throat. “We visited the library on the way up north.”

“No—but an Emma Blake? Did she have a daughter, Regina?”

“Yes.” A surprised curl of warm curiosity in his reply. “How did you…?”

“I hosted Regina Blake and Victoria Ash in my haven in Paris. They were ghoul and regnant. I did my best to separate them, but it seems it wasn’t enough.” Anatole tilted his head side to side, considering the soil Beckett had knelt before and connecting events in his mind. “They did not speak of you, however. If I had known Regina Blake and her mother were important to you, I would have acted with more vehemence and pointed purpose. This must be one of God’s little jokes.”

“I cannot even demand satisfaction,” Beckett said, the previous warmth in his voice transforming to seething anger. “Anton Wellig is dead. And she asked I harm no one in her name. She made me swear it.”

A moment, and Anatole realized what Beckett was speaking of—a duel. Beckett couldn’t challenge Wellig to a duel and shoot him through. Violence was an Enlightened gentleman’s outlet for grief.

“You, with her, you…” Anatole struggled for the words. “… _un mariage du sang_?”

“Yes,” Beckett said, and his body relaxed. That little affirmation sounded full of exhaustion, regret, and longing.

“Tell me.”

Beckett wove the tale like the Romans twisted the Lord’s crown of thorns. In the heart of Cairo, the Followers of Set searched for traces of their antediluvian’s childe, and a vitae-hungry Emma offered them her aid, only for Beckett to fall into her arms and interrupt the ritual. Anatole listened with an attentive stillness.

Once Beckett began pouring his sorrow out, he could not stop. He told all: his journey to Vienna; the first, faltering steps of romance between Emma and he; the fog of confusion surrounding Lady Ophelia, known in ancient times as Kemintiri; the full bloom of love and bitter fruit that followed—the crimson-spattered words grew yet more drenched until they stopped abruptly, like the words pressed against a bruise too fresh for touch.

Beckett bent with sorrowful burden as Anatole stood and collected what ashes he could find in the jar, as he guided Beckett back to the manor house, as Anatole ordered the servants to draw a bath, as Anatole striped Beckett of his garments and nudged him into the steaming tub. Anatole scrubbed the soft lavender-honey soap deep into his scalp.

Anatole privately marveled to be in one of these new bathing rooms, with water heated elsewhere and pumped directly in the tub and sink. Such luxury had been unknown until now, but the reliability of servants to provide fresh towels, new clothes, and a fire in the adjoining bedroom had remained unchanged.

Beckett broke silence just as Anatole figured out how to drain the tub. “I don’t think I’ll remember all of it, but everything about her—everything about Emma is clear. The rest is a fading dream.” Beckett sprang out of the porcelain, but Anatole deftly caught him in a towel and wrapped him tight. “Hesha! Halim! I let them go with that woman!”

Anatole mushed the towel around Beckett’s wet head. “Let the Followers of Set reap what they have sown, little wolf. They wanted their Lady. Now, she has them.”

“She was this close to killing Mithras. I don’t believe his legend, but his might is undeniable, and he was brought to his knees.”

“From what you say, the English Tremere wanted Mithras’ death—Keminitri only wanted his open companionship.”

“I—do you think that is what this devil of a business has been about? The Tremere wanted to murder the Prince of London, out of spite?”

Sure the Gangrel wouldn’t run, Anatole unwrapped Beckett from the towel’s clutches, and Beckett passed to the bedroom to briskly re-dress himself in trousers and shirt. They looked exactly like his previous outfit.

The Gangrel paced the bedroom, and Anatole sat at an ornate wooden breakfast table and watched him go back and forth, like a cat with its eyes on a mouse. “Regina is Kindred, then? I may see her?”

Beckett made a sharp heel-turn. “Why would you want to see her?” His voice came out sharp. Perhaps sharper than he intended, for his jaw unclenched and he waved his hand in a flippant manner.

Anatole arched a brow. “To reassure myself she is safe. We didn’t part company on the best of terms. Victoria repaid my hospitality by arranging to have hunters burn my home down.”

Beckett goggled at him. “The Santé prison? It’s in ruins?”

He gave a quiet hiss. “Yes.”

“I’m so sorry,” Beckett said. Tension seemed to coil tighter around him, and he returned to pacing. “Will you tell me what happened?”

Anatole did. It started amusingly enough—the elegant Victoria Ash climbing naked out the pickle delivery was an entertaining image. He introduced the pair to his philosophy of redemption through faith and good works, and slowly weaned of Regina off Victoria’s blood. “I did not know Victoria’s exact scheme for such a bright, feeling person as Regina, but I knew anyone in Victoria’s clutches would do better out of them.”

“Wise,” Beckett said. He stood at the window now, staring south into the darkness, toward the road.

Regina had seemed interested in conversion. She _had_ converted. That had warmed him considerably, as Regina was a good ally to have when hunters stalked the Parisian streets. Beckett didn’t flinch when Anatole described how decades-long acquaintances had greeted Final Death under the sun. Instead, the Gangrel said, “And that’s why you had that Nosferatu ghoul chained up and mangled.”

“I was trying to find his regnant,” Anatole explained, “and adopt him into our community of rehabilitation. He could have been like the other men and women who left the prison free of the demons that plagued them. No longer penniless. No longer hungry. No longer unable to read or write or find employment.

“Prince Villon charged all Seers to bend their minds towards the hunters’ informant. He has been very attentive to Malkav’s warnings since the Terror. Several of my sisters and brothers noticed this ghoul hanging around the doomed before they met their fate. A pattern is a pattern. I am the elder, so I was to interrogate and wring his regnant’s influence out of him. He was very stubborn. I should have thought of how it looked to Regina, newly baptized and unsure, to see him in the throes of forced withdrawal; forced to burn his borrowed blood. I should not have left it to Brother Paul, with his clouded devotion to me. I paid for my mistake in fire.”

“You were focused on Ash. Quite a will to tame.”

“A pretty rose of lies and thorns. And covered with aphids,” Anatole seethed, flashing his teeth. A flat blade of ice froze his spine.

Beckett still stood at the window, still gazed at the road from Bernan House, and stillness disturbed Anatole. Action suited Beckett better. The prophet asked his next question with care. “Have you written to Regina to tell her of her mother’s fate?”

A wincing intake of breath. “I’ve already done so.”

“And?”

“She told me in no uncertain terms that I was a coward and a rogue who she never wanted in her sight again. It was only out of courtesy to her mother’s deep affection that she did not report my whereabouts to the London Sheriffs.”

Assurance must be swift. “That will change. It is the only certain thing, in our long life. Her esteem will cycle to admiration. Fate turns her wheel.”

Beckett said nothing, and the ice-blade twisted in Anatole’s back. He stood and approached. Something was off. This was not solely grief. Becket’s hands were clasped behind his back, and black obsidian cufflinks caught Anatole’s eye. “What are those?”

“What?”

Anatole stepped closer and peered at the black marks on his friend’s shirt sleeves. “Those cufflinks. Give them to me, as I am your friend.”

Beckett looked down at the jewelry like he’d never seen them before. “These? Old bobs that Lady Ophelia gifted me. You—why don’t I want to give them to you?”

That was all the proof Anatole needed. He seized the small jewel and ripped. The scream of fabric was drowned out by Beckett’s displeased yowl. Like a wildcat denied prey, he scratched Anatole’s cheek, and deep red vitae speckled the carpet. Anatole ignored the sting to throw the cufflink into the fire. Beckett dived for it, and Anatole tackled him to the ground.

The pair landed on the vanity, and the mirror glass cracked with a thin, shimmering sound. Anatole hung onto Beckett’s middle like a limpet, and only loosened when Beckett’s knuckles smashed into the crown of his head. Like a snake, Anatole reared up, chomped onto Beckett’s unmarred sleeve, and tore. The cufflink was heavy as a loose tooth in his mouth, and he spit it in the fire. The acrid tang of burning metal filled the room.

“What are you doing?” Beckett cried and threw Anatole off. The prophet flew backward and crashed into the breakfast table’s petite chair, which snapped under the force. Beckett dashed back to the fire, and the next sound was a sucked in breath of surprise.

“No one owns your mind but you,” Anatole said. He shouldn’t remain prone on the floor like this, but he could only bring himself to close his eyes and breathe.

“They’re oozing to puddles. Those were—those were bewitched.”

“I know.”

A shuffling noise, and something warm pressed against the scratches on Anatole’s face. “I hurt you,” Beckett said in wonder, like he didn’t believe it.

Anatole focused the blood to his face, directing the flesh to mend. The damage itself wouldn’t be a problem, but the magical echoes of Beckett’s claws lingered. A stickiness pressed against his cheek, and, with a start, he realized Beckett had licked a finger and was rubbing the wounds away like a professor would a drawing in chalk.

Anatole sat up and opened his eyes. Beckett had kneeled next to him. “That’s not—”

Beckett interrupted. “I’m sorry. You came to help, and I’ve been a boor. Let me be sorry.”

“Sweet—mm.” Before Anatole could say more, Beckett’s sweet cinnamon mouth was on his. The kiss sent waves of blushing heat through his body, making every part where they touched tingle with remembered life. He lay in wreckage and dragged Beckett on top of him. The pop of the fire deafened, the bones in his palm melded perfect to the round cusp of Beckett’s skull; a stretch of his torso and his knee found the source of the faint scent of arousal.

“Apologies, a hundred apologies,” Beckett whispered, kissing his healed cheek. “Forgive me.”

“I forgive you for the hurt, but anything more?” He tsked. “If you want forgiveness about Emma, you must recant, and I shall not let you do that,” Anatole said. A curious sense of experimentation came over him. It had been a long time. Beckett smelled good like this, tasted good; was warm and pliant in his arms. A sharp contrast to the matchsticks around them.

Anatole reached up and pushed the tangled brown curtain of Beckett’s hair behind his ear. The Gangrel hovered above him, all uncertainty. Tenderness filled Anatole’s dead chest. “Do not apologize for falling in love.”

“I wanted you to meet her, she reminded me of you; the way she talked of salva—haah!” Anatole had rubbed his knee against Beckett’s groin, and the cock had stirred to even greater life. Beckett’s cheeks flushed a beautiful, delicate pink. The slits of his eyes widened. “You haven’t touched me like that before.”

Anatole couldn’t resist temptation. He touched a finger to Beckett’s face to feel the heat for himself. A low chuckled escaped. “Would you mind if I did? Let me shape the rest of your night. I can feel you—feel myself in your veins. You want this.”

“I want it more than anything. But do _you_ want it?”

“Yes, yes. I want to make you feel good. Allow me to worship you.”

In answer, Beckett kissed like the starved, like the Hebrews receiving manna from Heaven. The cinnamon scent grew as Beckett rutted against his knee, his thigh, his own sex. Soon, those trousers would be uncomfortable. Anatole’s fingers intertwined with Beckett’s hair and yanked.

Beckett whimpered and scrambled to follow Anatole to the bed. It was the work of a moment to remove his robe, but Beckett managed to undo shirt and trousers and belt faster. Anatole roughly pushed Beckett onto the linen sheets. The Gangrel landed with a thump, but, in a blink, Anatole found himself pressed flat to the mattress and Beckett laving at his nipples, at the bottom of his ribs.

Panic seized him from nowhere. “We won’t lay a third night,” he blurted out.

Beckett froze and stopped his ministrations. “I would like to.”

“It wouldn’t be like with her. You would grow to hate me,” Anatole said. “I’m not always myself, beholden to only myself. I want you to be safe, to witness everything with clear eyes.”

“Don’t you love me?” Beckett’s voice was small, plaintive, and his face was searching. “You’ve said it so many times. I love you.”

Anatole propped himself up on an elbow. “Yes, I love you. Don’t doubt I love you.”

Beckett’s next words sharpened to a growl. “Then do it. Take me out of my head. I can’t stand it in there anymore. There’s too much of everything.”

“Oh, my sweet,” Anatole kissed him. “I can take care of that.”

They rolled onto their sides, and Anatole pressed his front to Beckett’s back. The cost of a boon to become taller had been worth it, for his newly lengthened limbs could wrap around Beckett easily. He directed the blood to make him human, to make him vulnerable and warm and fluid. He spit on his hand before questing downward to the center-point of Beckett’s pleasure and brushing the shaft with his fingers.

Beckett gasped, and it was a delicious sound. “Only think of me tonight,” Anatole murmured, smoothing back the long, brown hair, nosing his face into the fevered juncture of Beckett’s neck and shoulder. He laced his words with the blood between them, with command. “Only dream of me, my little wolf.” His fangs throbbed as he bit down.

Hot, wet affection suffused the heart. Beckett writhed as Anatole made rough, short pulls on his cock, as he sucked life blood and thickened the bond between them to a rope long enough to hang on. The world narrowed to the two of them. No fire or magic or room existed beyond the tangle of them together. Anatole could feel the muscle of Beckett’s stomach flex, the trembles of the inner thigh; the soft tangles of his manhood’s hair.

It was like owning a second body, an extended treasure. Nerve endings long silenced sparked with life, and he was hotly aware of each toe, each finger, each bone. The muscles of Beckett’s shoulders pressed against him, the sweaty strain of their knees, the softness of newly washed skin. Honey, lavender, cinnamon, vellum, leather—these scents perfumed the air.

It might as well have been his own cock that leaked pre-come, and Beckett’s hand the one changing to a long and slow rhythm. They were mirrors who loved the sight of the other, the reflection of them reflecting.

Beckett jutted into his hand in time. “Don’t stop,” Beckett panted. His voice was thin; dizzy.

“Shhh.” Too much. Anatole took one last gulp of the sweet, earthy taste before sealing the bite closed.

“No!” Beckett yelled, and, before Anatole could decipher this exclamation, he turned and bit Anatole in the chest. Beckett’s body convulsed, and he came in a sudden release, and Anatole clung to Beckett tight.

Anatole kissed Beckett’s head and whispered nothings. Beckett licked the mess up, and their kiss tasted salt-tanged. “Did I do well?” asked Anatole.

Beckett barked a laugh. “Extraordinary.”

Anatole smiled, but sober thoughts were needed. “We cannot share blood again for two moons.”

Beckett looked like Anatole had punched him. “Why not?” he demanded.

“Marriage should not be an act done out of grief.”

Beckett changed tact. “But I like feeling you.” He kissed the cornered of Anatole’s mouth and trailed up his jaw to the spot behind his ear, which made Anatole shiver with delight. “You promised I’d never be lonely, and this will more than ensure it.” He kissed Anatole’s forehead, cheeks; the tip of his nose. “I need you.”

Anatole wiggled out from under his lover and let Beckett fall back onto the mattress. The Gangrel shifted and his wet hair fanned out like a dark halo—other people would think a black halo and crimson eyes would make Beckett a pale demon. Anatole knew him to be damned man.

He let go a long lover’s sigh. It struck him again how young Beckett was. This was his first heartbreak, as one of the dead. Anatole had let him stray from his sight, and he had altered, changed; transformed. An unwitnessed alchemy. Anatole stretched out and lay atop his lover, pressing him down.

Beckett wrapped his arms around Anatole’s ribs. He could feel Beckett churning through his veins, ready and willing to serve. They breathed together, slow and long, as the blood settled. Warmth to warmth. This was all Anatole needed.

“It’s like I can feel your heart,” Beckett whispered. “Can hear it, almost. I don’t want it to stop.”

Anatole chose not to remark that his heart had stopped before Beckett was ever born. Or that he could hear Beckett’s too. The Cobweb murmured on, but the rise and fall of his chest, the easy heat of their embrace, the comforting smells of his beloved—Beckett was his Atlas and his bane reduced to feathers. “Come to Paris with me. Help me establish a haven. Heal.”

“I don’t think I’d be able to resist you that long. This is….” Beckett swallowed. “Love without hurt. You truly do take the pain away.”

A smile sneaked on his face, but he sobered. “You dismiss your own strength.”

Some inner working within Beckett relaxed, and he made a disgruntled, defeated noise. “Aristotle wants me to go to East.”

“For the Encyclopedia?”

“I can bury my claws there. Don’t follow me.”

Anatole sat up to kiss him, to run his tongue over lips and fang, to suck on Beckett’s own. Beckett groaned and trailed a hand down Anatole’s back. “I’ll miss you.”

“Someday, we’ll be here again.”

“Remember me, and remember yourself until then, little wolf.”


End file.
